Centuries turned like pages in a forgotten book.
The temple of Metztli crumbled, its pillars swallowed by roots and moss. Tonalnan's bones faded into the soil she once guarded, and Xochitl's grave was lost beneath wildflowers that no one remembered by name.
But the amulet—the fragment of the Veil—did not decay.
It drank moonlight and silence alike, dreaming in the dark.
Travelers who wandered too close spoke of visions: a woman crying silver tears, a god whispering from behind the stars. Some vanished. Others returned hollow-eyed, muttering of shadows that breathed.
The locals built a wall around the ruin, then a village around the wall, then a city around the myth.
And as centuries passed, the Veil of Xochitl became legend, and legend became superstition.
---
When the conquistadors came, they called it La Lagrima de la Luna—the Moon's Tear.
They pried it from its stone cradle and carried it across oceans, certain it was divine treasure.
But every ship that bore it met storms that should not have been, waves that rose higher than prayers. By the time it reached Europe, half the crew had drowned beneath a sky that refused to show the moon.
The Tear was locked in monasteries, sold to collectors, stolen by kings and zealots alike.
Each who held it dreamed of a voice whispering in a language no human throat could shape.
It promised knowledge. It promised dominion. And always—it asked for blood.
When revolutions came, the relic vanished again.
It reappeared centuries later in the hands of scholars who called it an artifact of unknown lunar composition.
They measured it, photographed it, analyzed it under sterile light.
None noticed how it pulsed faintly with every full moon.
None heard the heartbeat that hummed just beyond their instruments' reach.
---
Then came the age of machines.
The last monks who still feared it called it El Velo de Dios.
Corporate archeologists called it Lunar Object #113A.
To the scientists of the 21st century, it was no longer holy—merely data.
But to one man, it was opportunity.
His name was William Lex Webb.
CEO. Visionary. Believer of nothing except control.
He acquired the artifact quietly through Ynkeos's private acquisitions branch.
He told his board it was "a study in lunar resonance materials."
But when he touched it, the fragment flickered awake for the first time in a thousand years.
For an instant, the moon outside his office turned blood-red.
And in the reflection of his window, he saw something smile back at him.
That night, he dreamed of an ancient temple, of a girl's hollowed body, and of a god's silent promise echoing through ages:
"When mankind worships its own light, I will send my shadow to remind it of the night."
William woke trembling—and fascinated.
He began to build.
Machines. Networks. Eyes.
A lattice of surveillance strung across the world like a synthetic constellation.
He told the world it was progress.
But the fragment whispered another word: Preparation.
---
Far beneath Ynkeos Tower, the Veil now rests within glass and circuitry, its ancient energy threaded into silicon veins. Engineers believe it powers their new AI cores.
They do not know it waits for one thing—a vessel with a heart strong enough to bear its memory.
Somewhere far from that tower, in another city under the same moon, a soldier will one day bleed beneath the stars.
And when his blood touches the light, the Veil will remember the voice that once commanded it to awaken.
And Tecciztecatl will whisper, "Now."
---
That's the moment your myth merges with Marc's modern timeline—the slumbering relic that William exploits becomes the key Tecciztecatl uses to awaken his first human vessel.